My handler, Philip (a pseudonym, of course), certainly did not wish to be photographed sitting beside me in the passenger seat when the Triumph entered East Germany, so he had flown into Tempelhof, the airport that serviced West Berlin only. He waited in a different hotel until the visa came through and my passport returned. The agency took its fee and gave me my passport back. Philip secured the final OK from London, meaning the asset was ready, and I was cleared to roll through Checkpoint Charlie the following morning.
There were several conditions for the visa. A minimum sum in deutschmarks had to be changed into worthless East marks, and this was duly done. On the East German autobahn south, there were specific filling stations where I was allowed to refuel. I had no doubt that if the Stasi were not going to tail me all the way, there would be checkpoints along the route at which the dark-blue Triumph with British number plates would be “clocked” and noted.
And there was just one hotel in Dresden where I was expected and where a reservation had been made.
I had not seen Checkpoint Charlie for ten years, but it was much the same. West Germans (but not West Berliners, who were forbidden) and other Europeans queued as usual by the checking sheds while mirrors on wheels were run under the chassis to scan for contraband.
The usual “bonnet up” and “boot open” orders, the usual nervous obedience, the usual tourist attempts to be lighthearted, the usual grim, unsmiling response. The border guard assigned to me looked around the engine bay, but touched nothing. The battery pad had passed its first test.
My small valise had been emptied and searched inside the shed and, that apart, the boot contained nothing, so I was allowed to replace it and slam the lid shut. Then the final curt wave toward East Berlin, the barrier rising, and the roll into Redland.
I had memorized the route through the southern outskirts of East Berlin toward the Dresden autobahn. Of course, there was the second border check—the one to get you out of East Berlin and into rural East Germany. This I recognized: it was the one through which the Magdeburg Stasi had escorted me after the RB-66 incident in the pine forest ten years back. I hoped Captain Holland’s leg had mended.
Then it was the open road, south into Saxony province and the city of Dresden, which I had never seen. The hotel was clearly marked on my street map and I was installed by midafternoon.
The car park was underground, and this was before the all-seeing CCTV cameras. There seemed to be no one watching, though I had no doubt my room was bugged, my telephone was tapped, and that it would be searched while I was at dinner. So I left the McGuffin under the battery pad until morning.
There was no point in going out to wander the streets. My brass-buttoned blazer yelled “Englishman” to any drably dressed East German, so I stayed in and studied the two books I had brought with me on the Albertinum Museum and its many ancient treasures. I hoped these would be noted by the hotel staff and that if they reported, which they almost certainly would, it would be to say the Brit was simply obsessed by Roman antiquities.
Not entirely unnaturally, I slept lightly and woke early. The meet was for two o’clock in a certain aisle between display cabinets inside the museum. I breakfasted at eight and checked out at nine, paying cash (no credit cards back then). But I left my valise with the concierge and was assured my car could remain in the garage until I needed it. I was not told what else would happen—that my case would be searched again. Good, there was nothing in it.
At half past nine, I ducked down into the garage, waited until another hotel guest drove out, clipped open the bonnet, removed the McGuffin, slipped it into my blazer pocket, replaced the battery, reconnected it, and closed up. Then it was a leisurely walk with textbooks under the arm to the museum. At five to two, I was in the aisle between the cabinets, engrossed in shards of pottery.
There were others there. Couples, threesomes, the inevitable guided groups of schoolchildren. I had my picture book open, comparing the photographs with the real artifacts behind the glass, occasionally looking out for a single man with a dark-red tie and black stripes. A few seconds after two, he turned into my aisle.
Germans usually do not have Slavic features, but this one did. And the tie. I saw his glance settle upon the one I was wearing: dark blue with white polka dots. No one else remotely like either of us. Then a wandering curator in uniform. Sometimes the simplest way is the best way.
“Entschuldigung [excuse me], where is the men’s room?”
He was politeness itself and pointed out the sign Herren above a door at the end of the gallery. No eye contact with “Chummy” standing ten feet away. He should know the “meet” would be in the toilet. So I wandered away toward it, entered, relieved myself, and was washing my hands when he entered. Apart from us, it was empty and all the stall doors were open. He, too, began to wash his hands. So two noisy streams of water. His turn. In German.
“Excuse me, did we not meet in Potsdam?”
My reply.
“Yes, I was there last April.”
Enough. No one else wa
s talking this garbage in Dresden that morning. I nodded to two adjacent stalls. He took one, I took the other. Under the cubicle partition came a fat package of paper. I took mine and slid it the other way.
I defy anyone to resist the small worm of anxiety in the pit of the stomach at that moment. Is Chummy the real Chummy or was the real asset picked up a week ago and broken in the interrogation cellar to reveal all the places and ID codes of the coming “meet”?
Is the place about to be invaded by screaming hordes of goons with drawn pistols, handcuffs, clouts about the head? Even the silence seems menacing. But the biggest fear of all is not that you have run out of tradecraft or luck, but that far away back home, some bastard has betrayed you. “They” knew all along, they were waiting for you, mocking all your precautions. That is why Dante put the traitor in the final circle of hell.
Nothing happened. Chummy left the booth and I heard the outer door slam shut. I have never seen him since. I hope he is all right. There were still eighteen years of the USSR to go, and the KGB had a very nasty procedure for traitors.
I also left the booth, but had another hand wash to kill time. When I left, I bumped into another man coming in, but he was just a visitor. We nodded, passed, and I strolled out, still clutching my textbooks. There were a few more hours to kill until dusk, for I wanted to motor in darkness.
The visa expired at midnight and the way to the West was not via East Berlin but south to the Saale River crossing point, one of the few tourist-approved crossing points. South of Saale, in the town of Bayreuth, Philip would be waiting.
Back at the hotel, I collected my valise with assurances of having had a wonderful time in Dresden and copious compliments on the superb Albertinum Museum. Then down to the car park. But there was a large conference party checking in. Too many people. If I was seen waist-deep in my own engine bay, there might be offers of help, the last thing I needed. I kept the McGuffin in my breast pocket, got into the Triumph, which was already attracting curious glances, and drove out. Darkness was descending. I took the signs pointing to the Geraer Kreuz, the major autobahn junction where the highway turned south to the Bavarian border.
It was pitch-dark when I saw the lay-by in the headlights and, as I had hoped, the road by night was almost empty. I eased to the right, slid up the shallow ramp until the pine trees enveloped me, and stopped. Lights out. Wait, have a cigarette. Relax. Nearly there.
There was a small spanner in the glove compartment. Not enough to arouse suspicion, but vital for the nuts on the battery leads. I got out, opened the bonnet, and used my spanner to ease the first nut, the one on the negative battery lead. There was no need for a torch, the sickle moon was enough. At that moment, the lay-by was flooded with a harsh white light.
Another car had cruised up the ramp behind me, its headlights undipped. I slipped the spanner into my trouser pocket and straightened up. The car behind was a Wartburg saloon, and by its own lights I could see its livery: green and cream, the insignia of the Volkspolizei, the People’s Police, the VoPos. There were four of them climbing out.